


Heart Line

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:46:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for a prompt on tumblr. It all comes back to their joined hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Line

**Author's Note:**

> for tumblr user redhotchiligingers! sorry this ended up a little all-over-the-place and less focused on hand-holding lmao

Every morning Daiki wakes up to an empty bed—strictly speaking, this isn’t true; he wakes briefly on weekdays with Tatsuya’s alarm but he’s still so groggy and half-asleep and disoriented that he barely has time to reach out and pull Tatsuya back in for a quick cuddle before he slips into dreaming once again, and when he really does wake up the other side is cold and Tatsuya’s been at work for several hours. His ability to sleep like the dead in his own home isn’t a bad one per se (it means he gets a lot more high-quality sleep here than he does on the road), especially because it means that he really does think of being here in this apartment with Tatsuya as being home, but it means he misses out on awake time with Tatsuya, which is already more than a little scarce. If he’d had that awake time, he’d mostly try and deter Tatsuya from getting to work as punctually as he does, sneak in a few more cuddles and maybe shower together (if Tatsuya would let him) or cook breakfast or at last see Tatsuya off at the door and give him a nice goodbye kiss, and those minutes would add up into hours and days, but—as it is, it’s a weekend and he’s in bed alone.

The shower’s on, though; Daiki can hear it through the door, the hiss of the old building’s pipes bringing in the hot water like some kind of ghost voice, and Tatsuya’s clothes are lying on the floor. He’s already back from his morning run, probably ready to make breakfast—or do other things, like coming back to bed. Daiki yawns; he’s still tired despite a full night’s sleep and having nothing more to do the day before than his daily summer training regimen and cooking dinner, and even though the lazy summer days are winding down and training camp is fast approaching Daiki’s not ready for it yet. If he could have infinite time spent lazing about with Tatsuya, it still wouldn’t be enough—he loves basketball, yes, but in a perfect world he could play every day and be with Tatsuya every day and this world is very far from perfect.

The shower shuts off; Daiki rolls over on the bed. It’s a few moments before the doorway to the bathroom opens and Tatsuya steps out; he’s wearing only a towel slung very, very low on his slender hips and he hasn’t bothered to dry himself off very well. Drops of water cling to his shoulders and chest and abs, and damn.

“Morning,” Daiki says, letting a smile spread across his face.

“Hey,” says Tatsuya.

He moves a little bit closer to the bed and Daiki reaches out to grab his clean hands; his fingers are long and curve almost reflexively around Daiki’s hand and his palm is littered with layers of callouses, hardened from years of basketball and certain undue physical stresses. Every single one of them is familiar, and familiarity in this case breeds a certain tenderness, a certain comfort with which Daiki can pull Tatsuya’s knuckles toward his mouth and kiss them. The towel is inching lower on Tatsuya’s hips and then Daiki pulls at his arms, and Tatsuya lets himself fall onto the bed and halfway on top of Daiki.

“I need to get dressed,” Tatsuya says.

“Not yet,” says Daiki, pressing a quick kiss to Tatsuya’s mouth before Tatsuya kicks at his ankle.

“We’ll have time later,” says Tatsuya.

“For you to get dressed,” says Daiki.

This time, Tatsuya kisses him, quick and soft, before he hops off of the bed, letting the towel fall off of him and turning toward the dresser. Daiki groans, but not-so-covertly takes a nice long look at Tatsuya’s ass.

“Don’t you need a shower?” says Tatsuya.

“You could get in with me,” says Daiki.

Tatsuya ignores him and pulls a t-shirt out of his drawer (miraculously, it’s not wrinkled). “I’m making breakfast.”

Well, that might be a fair trade—as long as he gets to watch Tatsuya finish dressing. As if Tatsuya can read his thoughts, he starts to take his time picking out underwear and jeans and, well, Daiki’s not the only one enjoying it.

“Fucking tease.”

Tatsuya shrugs—Daiki does know that if he really wants it, he can get out of bed and drag Tatsuya back in, wrap him in his arms and shower his entire body with kisses and trace the lines on his palms with his thumbs for hours and Tatsuya will let him. But he’s right; it will be better later when he’s really awake (because sleepy sex is only good when both of them are exhausted and dozing off already) and when he’s clean and when they’ve eaten. So he watches Tatsuya leave, content with the view, and tries to think about the shower and whatever hot water’s left.

When Daiki comes out for breakfast his coffee’s already out on the table in his mug with just the right amount of milk; Tatsuya’s reading the newspaper but he glances up and smiles.

“Clean?”

Daiki nods. He feels fresh, clean clothes and damp skin and hair and all (a cursory rub-down with a towel is all he usually needs, and it helps keep him cool because even the mornings here get really hot really quickly) and he reaches for Tatsuya’s hand across the table, warm and dry from holding his own coffee mug. Tatsuya raises an eyebrow but complies, running his fingertips over the side of Daiki’s hand while Daiki raises his mug in his other hand. Tatsuya’s fingers drum against the hollow of Daiki’s wrist; Daiki turns his hand and catches Tatsuya’s to freeze it in place, to surround it with his fingers. Tatsuya sighs, light and soft and barely perceptible, but then relaxes his hand. Daiki places his finger against Tatsuya’s steady pulse; Tatsuya’s eyes drift back to the newspaper and they stay in that position for a while.

They go out to the drugstore in the afternoon, the sun beating down through the haze and sweat gathering on their necks; they hold hands anyway. The streets are deserted; most people can’t take the heat (or at least won’t right now) and even if this weren’t the case it would still feel as if they’re in their own private little world. Tatsuya glances up at him every few minutes, turning his head a tiny fraction, just enough for Daiki to pick up on (and mostly because he’s learned the subtle ways Tatsuya expresses his interest, the tiny signals he only half-means to send).

The store’s air conditioning is a welcome relief; they meander through the aisles in no rush to get what’s on the shopping list in any order, only to be with each other. The sweat finally evaporates from between Daiki’s fingers and he slides them in between Tatsuya’s, locking their hands together more snugly, and Tatsuya smiles back at him with that cautiously-pleased look of his and Daiki wonders if he should just kiss him anyway despite their other hands being full and despite being in the middle of a store because there’s no reason to be cautious about this feeling. So he does, and when he tries to half-seriously go a little too deep than is probably appropriate given the setting, Tatsuya pushes him away laughing, eye shining in mirth.

But he’s the one who kisses Daiki like that when they get home, pushing him down against the mattress with both of his palms pressed to Daiki’s and all twenty fingers tangled like the roots of a palm tree.


End file.
